Clearly You Have Issues
by dinkyrose
Summary: John meets a stranger at a house party who makes him question who he is and what he wants. (Teenlock)


John leant against the kitchen counter, bottle of beer in hand, some Spanish stuff that someone's dad or uncle or something had brought back on the sly in the back of a white transit van, probably on one of those booze-cruises to the continent. They needn't have fucking bothered, it still tasted like piss, even if it did have a foreign label. People would buy any old shit if it was cheap enough.

He had tuned out of the general conversation about a half an hour ago, moving out of the crowded living room where the music was too loud to hear what Mike was saying to him, and the air too thick with cigarette smoke which made his eyes water and the back of his throat burn. He mouthed 'going to get some air', and shook his half-empty bottle in the universal sign language of 'do you want another one?' Mike smiled broadly and gave him the thumbs-up. Shit. He hadn't actually been planning on going back any time soon. Hopefully he was so pissed he would forget John had asked.

The kitchen was a bomb-site. People really had no respect. John leant forward and thumbed open a pizza box that lay, looking slightly battered, in the middle of the kitchen table. Some dickhead had stubbed a cigarette out on the last remaining slice, ash mingling with tomato puree and congealed mozzarella. He wrinkled his nose against the sour stench that wafted up from the greasy cardboard. His stomach lurched and he snapped the box shut again. If he had been hungry before he definitely wasn't now.

He rocked back on his heels again, and tipped that last dregs of beer into his mouth, grimacing a little as he swallowed it down, too warm and flat now to be pleasant. His body did that shudder y thing, when you taste something awful, but it's too late and it goes down anyway, and if you think about it too much your stomach twists like it does just before you're sick. Great, he could add spewing in a strangers house to the list of embarrassing things John Watson did in his first week at Uni.

How could he not even know where they were? Granted, it was a new town and a massive campus, and he could put it down to two solid days of unpacking boxes in a room that was much too small for an adult male, with a strong smell of mildew that even a night with the window open and half a bottle of neat bleach couldn't fix. So when Mike had asked 'House party tonight?', he'd jumped at the chance, anything to get out of this room and shake off the fume-induced headache, while he tried not to think about the three-hundred quid deposit he'd just lost by inadvertently stripping the paint off the window sill and burning a massive bloody hole in the carpet.

He shifted his weight from the right to the left leg and winced. Evidently the beer had decided to bypass his dodgy stomach completely and head straight for his bladder, the persistent ache changing quickly to just the wrong side of painful, the type of feeling that once it makes its presence known you can't un-notice it again. Feeling like the worst kind of hypocrite he dumped the empty bottle in the kitchen sink and went stumbling off in search of a toilet, swaying as he went and occasionally bouncing off walls, obviously a lot drunker than he'd thought he was. Tomorrow should be an interesting experience. Bodies blocked his way on the staircase, not the best place to have a conversation or stick your tongue down someone's throat, but that didn't seem to be stopping them. He pushed past anyway, standing on a few toes. He felt the burn of a cigarette on his bare arm, got an elbow in his ribs, and fell up the last two stairs, banging his shin on the handrail when he pulled himself up again. Smooth. On the surprisingly large landing, (some posh berk here on daddy's money?) there was a choice of seven doors, all absolutely identical. His bladder stabbed again and he clenched his thighs together, grabbing the first handle he came to and praying it was a bathroom.

Nope.

"Shit. Sorry…I didn't know….is this your room?"

A boy was lounging width-ways on his stomach across the end of a double-bed, rummaging through a box of CD's, a half-finished cigarette dangling between plump lips while his eyes squinted against the drifting smoke.

The boy looked up and glanced around absently, as if surprised to find himself there, or maybe he was just surprised that anyone had bothered to ask.

He shrugged, took another drag and exhaled. "It is for now".

A good enough answer as far as John was concerned, as he noticed a door which he hoped was hiding an en-suite bathroom. He couldn't have walked another step, so if it turned out to be a walk-in wardrobe he was fucked.

"Can I?" John gestured towards it.

"Be my guest".

The boy waved his hand imperiously in the general direction John had indicated and bent his head again, clicking his tongue in irritation as he continued to sort through the box that John strongly suspected didn't belong to him. Well, who was he to judge, pissing in someone's private bathroom, apparently boundaries were going to be crossed tonight whether he meant to or not.

He crossed the room in halting steps, and tried not to notice the irritating smirk that pointedly, wasn't directed at him. The bastard knew, and he was enjoying this. The sense of relief was inexpressible when he opened the door and saw the gleaming porcelain bathroom suite, and even more so when he finally got his dick out and let go, with a stream that was completely disproportionate to the volume of liquid he had consumed going by the time it took to finish.

'Are you by some chance part camel?' the boy called from beyond the closed door, in part-amusement, part-sarcasm.

John decided to just ignore him, and ducked his mouth under the stream from the cold tap, drinking deeply in an attempt to clear his head a little and dilute the effects of an imminent hangover. Pain stabbed behind his eye. He could definitely do without some posh twat taking the piss when he didn't know how he was going to get home tonight and had to be up at eight for registration and induction regardless of whether he felt like shit.

"Leaving already? I must say I'm deeply offended".

John pursed his lips, hand pausing over the door handle. The boy was sitting up now at the head of the bed, back against the plumped-up pillows, long legs curled under him to one side. He was wearing very tight jeans, the type that almost look sprayed-on, and were probably women's. John doubted if they made men's jeans that skinny and hated himself for noticing. The t-shirt was tight too, straining across his chest, faded and stretched out around the neck, like it was a favourite that he'd pulled over his head a few too many times. The boy yawned and stretched, probably on purpose to make the bottom ride up and reveal a tantalising flash of a milky-pale washboard stomach and the hint of a dark happy trail that disappeared below the waistband.

He should go, really he should, but his hand just wouldn't make the handle turn.

"Come talk to me…you are by far the most interesting person to barge in uninvited tonight, and I'm bored now" he patted a space on the bed beside him. "Is this any good?" He held up a cassette box for John's inspection, The Stone Roses, he recognised the cover. If this kid hadn't heard them before he must have been living under a rock. He was pale enough.

"Yeah, it's class", he stood still and watched while the boy hopped off the bed and knelt down beside an old sound system with a double tape deck and slotted the cassette inside. I lilting guitar riff chimed out, sounding only slightly tinny through the ancient speaker's built into the chunky unit.

"What do you suppose is the significance of sliced lemon on a Jackson Pollock-esque background?""The fuck do I know...listen….I should be getting back"

"Should you? Do your friends have you on a leash or something?"

He could leave now, go back downstairs and find Mike, maybe sink another couple of beers and find a completely different bathroom to relieve himself in. He could dance a bit, bum a cheeky cigarette and maybe find that pretty blonde girl again who'd been smiling at him half the night and who he knew had a room in the same building as him. They could go home together, maybe have a snog and a grope on the sofa, and then she would yawn and say she was tired when she wasn't really, waiting for John to make the move and take her to bed, and then….

He took his hand off the handle, and knew he wouldn't do any of those things tonight, because he didn't want to. Otherwise why would he have gone off to hide in the kitchen alone? What he wanted was to stay, and see what happened here.

He walked slowly towards the bed and sat down, and tried not to notice the smug look currently levelled at him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" John's eyes went wide as the boy pulled a tin from god knows where and popped it open. He extracted a packet of Rizla's, pulling two out to double-up then filling it with a generous pinch of tobacco… and something else. He licked the edge of the paper with the tip of a pink tongue and rolled it expertly between long graceful fingers, squeezing it in tighter at one end. He had obviously done this a thousand times, the entire process took only seconds.

The boy rolled his eyes. "What does I look like genius? I'm rolling a rather splendid joint, which you and I are going to thoroughly enjoy".

"Like fuck I am".

"Then you're free to leave…no-one's stopping you….no?...I thought not".

John clenched his jaw both aware and annoyed that he was being so expertly manipulated. The boy leant back against the headboard and smiled. He fished in his pocket for a lighter, the end of the paper sparking red and curling inward at the first inhale.

A sweet cloying scent filled the air.

Shit. He didn't know what to do. Was this really the time to admit that the most he'd ever done was puff on the odd ciggy when he was drunk, like now, and had never been anywhere near an illegal substance before in his life? At least not in a social situation. Steroids were disgustingly common on nearly every sports team he'd been a member of in the past few years. He would never use himself and made sure the ones who did knew exactly how much damage they were doing to themselves. Now he was going to blow all that. Another one for the list apparently.

"Who are you?" he said, because suddenly, that seemed important, if he was going to do this, smoke a joint in a bedroom at a party, with someone he'd only just met. John decided it was a perfectly reasonable question under the circumstances.

The boy raised an eyebrow at him this time, instead of rolling his eyes and it was just as fucking irritating as the first time. There was a faint bruise on his very prominent right cheekbone, green, the edges fading to a sickly yellow, with an attitude like this it hardly came as a surprise, a punch in the face was probably a regular occurrence.

"Sherlock" the boy said, as he passed the joint across.

He couldn't help it, really, it must have been the drink or something, the noise that came out somewhere between something a donkey would make and a pig-snort. Sherlock scowled and folded his arms across his chest in defiance. "Well its better than having a boring, ordinary name like John", he snapped, hugging his knees now and mouthing at the fabric of his jeans where they stretched out over the bone. John stared at the growing wet patch, realised he was staring, and that that was a bit creepy, and suitably distracted, took a much bigger drag than he meant to.

Shit. His lungs burst into flame and he couldn't catch his breath. Sherlock slammed him on the back a few times, hard, then laughed when he finally sucked in enough air and started to cough, smoke shooting down his nose as well as out of his mouth as his eyes streamed with tears.

"For fuck's sake don't inhale like that it's not a bloody cigarette" Sherlock said, snatching it back from his fingers, somewhere between irritated and amused.

"Yeah, I think I got that, thanks" John said, his voice rough and strained, still wheezing a little. A bottle of water appeared in his hand. He opened it and took a long pull.

"Okay now?"

"Yeah, I think so"

"You could've just said you know…that you've never done it before, instead of half choking yourself….here, sit up, I want to try something….I think it'll be more your cup of tea somehow…open your mouth…I promise I won't bite…much"

And so he sat, legs out in front on the bed, crossed at the ankle, and Sherlock shuffled round to sit alongside, legs curled around again, facing him. John watched his mouth and Sherlock watched John's face, and holding his gaze took another slow drag and gently leaned in. His left hand curled around the back of John's neck to pull him forward until their lips touched. Sherlock exhaled gently into his mouth, and the sweet, heavy smoke curled and danced over his tongue. But that was only part of it, the thing he barely noticed it was so subtle, it was drowned out by the fact that there were lips, very definitely boys lips, on his, at this very moment. Shit. He pulled back with a jerk and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. It was a reflex reaction, and then he felt like an idiot because what if Sherlock was offended, and why did he care anyway, it was just a blow-back wasn't it?, and not even a proper one really. Not an actual kiss or anything.

"Will I get high from this?" he stammered, because he had to say something, anything to break the tension, because Sherlock was looking at him with a smug air of satisfaction, like he knew something that John didn't. It was unnerving, being stared at by those eyes, that were too many different colours to count, and how could he know that unless he was staring back just as hard.

"Mmm?" Sherlock looked away first, considered the smouldering joint again and took another drag. Which he kept to himself. In his own mouth. "Maybe", he went on, "Probably….very likely…yes?" Sherlock was very definitely smirking now, lips curled up at the corners in the hint of a smile. "In fact I would say you already are".

John groaned and closed his eyes. He leant back enough to rest his head against the wall. His body felt heavy and slow, like it does when you first wake up from a really deep sleep, or on a Sunday morning when you stay in bed late just for the hell of it cause there's nothing to get up for. He was high, absolutely fucking baked and his parents would kill him if they ever found out about this, which they wouldn't he tried to tell himself, because they weren't here and he was out of fucks to give right now anyway. When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was lying on his back again, with one arm behind his head, twirling a thick dark lock of hair between his fingertips. But what stood out, quite a bit, was the sudden lack of t-shirt and the resulting abundance of smooth pale skin. His stomach was concave and John could count a few ribs too and the hip-bones, Christ, they jutted out from his skinny frame lifting the jeans away from his body to reveal a flash of white underwear and the curl of dense black pubic hair.

"You took your top off" Excellent, state the obvious Watson.

"I did"

"Why?"

"It's just too damn hot in here", Sherlock sighed and stretched, arching his back. It was all very 'look at me' but it worked. John could feel his heart rate pick up, thumping erratically, fast, slow, skip a beat, repeat. Maybe he was going into cardiac arrest – could weed do that?

"One last go?" Sherlock was sitting up again, crowding his space as he leaned forward expectant, smiling when John sat up a little, muzzy headed and rested his left hand on Sherlock's waist for balance. His palm connected with skin which erupted in goose-flesh under his fingertips.

"Are you going to kiss me again?"

"That wasn't a kiss….think of it more as a mutually beneficial exchange, in this context"

John hummed, not because he agreed, but why argue semantics when he could have that mouth on him again, and so he let it happen, the not-kiss that last time hadn't involved the slide of a tongue and a faint click of teeth as their lips began to move in a very deliberate kind of way that had nothing to do with sex even when everything felt too hot and tight in his jeans and his face burned like fire. But it wasn't an actual proper kiss, no, really, it wasn't.

He sucked in air like a drowning man when they pulled apart. Sherlock on the other hand looked completely at ease, like he did stuff like this all the time and it was all fine. Which is was. Why the hell did he feel like he was standing in the path of an oncoming train then?

"Think about it", Sherlock said, in that deep rich voice if his, cutting into his thoughts, " You already have your hand on my hip…leaning in…in the dominant position….how much more would it take just to tip….me….back….until you're lying on top of me".

It wasn't even a question. With the word 'tip' Sherlock had hooked a hand into the belt of his jeans and slowly pulled him down. He really was on top of another boy, one who was stripped to the waist and was spreading his legs out so John could lie between.

"Now what do you do…you've got me where you want me….what now….John".

The only thing he could think to say was, "Fuck".

"Well", said Sherlock, "I thought you might want to take the time to get to know one another a bit better….but if you insist, I'm game"

Christ, was he joking?

"Your heart", he went on, "is currently beating at almost double its resting rate, your perspiration levels have undergone a significant increase in the last minute or two and most importantly, I can feel the distinct outline of your semi-erect penis against my thigh. If you weren't at least marginally interested your body wouldn't be responding like this and you would have left ages ago….but you're still here…now what does that tell you?"

He had a pretty good idea, and so it would seem, did Sherlock. And he wanted to, just to try, just so he could see, so he would know: and that would be okay, it really would, except now it was real and not just a fantasy in his head or a vague tingling of anticipation that something might happen. That brush of fingers as you passed by someone in a crowded club, a second glance, squeezing past and putting your and on their waist for balance. How many times had he slept over at a mates house, and lain there in the night, sweating and shaking and feeling like an arsehole because you really just wanted someone to turn over and touch you or just do something, anything, and you were crawling out of your skin with want and feeling like a perv cause these were your friends for fuck's sake…. and the sad-wanking over pictures of the half-dressed pop star centre-fold in your sister's Smash Hits mag, which you now had to hide under the bed cause of the come on it, and buy her a new one pretending you spilt tea on the first. But now, now, he was actually, for real this time fucking lying on top of someone drop-dead gorgeous who had basically given him the green light to do stuff and he still just couldn't move that extra inch forward. What a loser.

"You think too much" said Sherlock, breaking into his thoughts and pressing right down on the sore spot yet again. "Is your internal monologue where you agonise over whether or not to kiss me going to end any time soon?, because I can't feel my right arm anymore".

He pressed his face into Sherlock's bare shoulder, just breathing in the scent of fresh sweat, weed and laundry detergent. If he could stay here, sleep here a while. Moving was not something he wanted to consider right now.

"Look, if it's that big a deal then don't….you're obviously not ready to relinquish the tenuous hold on your oh so dull heteronormative associations….perhaps I read things wrong"

"No….that's bullshit….you would never think you're wrong"

Sherlock raised his head from the mattress and tried to look down at John, squinting, cross-eyed.

"So?" he said, and it sounded much more like an invitation than an actual question, and who the hell cared any more anyway? So he answered instead with his lips against the curve of Sherlock's neck where it met with the bony hollow of his collar bone, so he didn't have to look up yet and see those penetrating eyes that had read him so quickly like a trashy novel, so bloody obvious.

And just when he got to the interesting part, the bit where Sherlock slid a hand down the back of his jeans and John ground his hips down just a little and he could feel the heat and hardness from someone else's cock pressing right back into his, just when he'd decided that this neck under his lips was lovely, but he would really much rather have a warm tongue sliding around in his mouth and had propped himself up on his arms, hovering right over, bending his head slowly down as Sherlock ran his hand under John's t-shirt and scraped his nails down John's back….it stopped. The door burst open, letting in a blast of noise and cold air. He scrambled backwards and sat at the end of the bed panting, feeling ridiculously guilty for no reason.

"Christ Sherlock, can't you keep it in your jeans for five bloody minutes?"

"Hey…I wasn't…" John scrambled to adjust himself, pull his t-shirt down, fasten his belt which he hadn't even noticed had come undone. He ran his fingers through mussed-up hair, trying desperately for normality, but his fingers still felt like they belonged to someone else, so he gave up and risked a look at Sherlock. He was still on his back, propped up on his arms, hair on end and breathing rather rapidly, like he'd just been shagged, which he almost had, apparently, by him, John.

"Yes you were, or you might have done if we hadn't been so _rudely_ interrupted" Sherlock corrected him, staring daggers at the boy in the doorway. He was tall and slender, with short sandy hair, left a little longer through the top, and he had those same cut-glass vowels as Sherlock did and that same air of entitlement. Rich, public school. Tosser.

"And my sister will be most relieved to avoid contact with you bodily fluids…" the boy said, eyes flicking over John's burning face and away again, "I feel like some air… beach? There's about ten of us going and Seb's going to bring a spot of the good stuff….you in?"

Sherlock shot him a look, unreadable, and he stared back blankly. This was not his world, these were not his friends, he was getting off in this guy's sister's bedroom for god's sake. He should just be thankful it hadn't ended with a punch in the face, although he was pretty confident who would come out of it worse.

Sherlock sat up bent over the side of the bed, rooting around on the floor for his t-shirt. It looked like a dish-rag, but he gave it a surreptitious sniff under the armpits, shrugged and pulled it back on, running his hands down his chest to smooth out the worst of the creases.

"So that's it…you're leaving?" he said, finding his voice at last, trying to ignore Mr smug posh-git in the doorway, who was probably listening to every word.

"Oh, I think the moment has passed, don't you?...and anyway, you were right the first time…you weren't"

"Weren't what?"

"Going to…. do anything that is. You would have stopped yourself, you always do. I offered you the ideal opportunity on a plate, the closest you've ever come, and you still would've stopped…..clearly you have issues….and I'm not your fucking counsellor" he hopped up, ready, and grabbing a bunch of keys from a bowl on the dressing table he stalked across the room, and turned as he reached the door.

"It was nice though….for what it's worth".

The door closed.

Fuck. John ran his hands down over his face, they were still shaking a little and a growing little knot of nausea was taking root in his stomach, whether it was the aftereffects of the weed or what he'd just been about to do on the bed with Sherlock, was open for debate. His money was on the former. Maybe he should stay here a while, sleep it off, because Mike would be able to tell in an instant, and even if by some miracle he didn't then the smell on his clothes would be blatantly obvious. No, best ask where the fuck he was and get a taxi back to halls and deal with whatever the hell all this was in the morning.

The stairs were clear this time, and he found his way back to the kitchen. The back door leading off into the garden was ajar, the murmur of voices floating in on the night air. He stepped outside and shivered, forgetting how cold the early autumn air could get at night, even in the midst of a so-called Indian summer.

"Didn't your mother tell you….you'll catch your death of cold out at night dressed like that?"

And there he was, solid and real, and not a figment of a drug-addled imagination, blowing smoke rings in the air, just a normal cigarette this time. Sherlock. The heavy weight that had been slowly squeezing his chest in a death-grip, eased.

"A bit nippy for you at the beach then?" he said, because how did you start this conversation anyway? Can we hop back on the bed and finish what we started because you really got it all wrong and I desperately want to see you with your pants off?

"Not really….a massive bonfire tends to sort that out….no, it's rather the thought of picking sand out the crack of my arse for the next fortnight that's lacking a certain appeal. However, I could be persuaded…in the right company"

"Ah, right….and what happened to 'not your fucking counsellor'?", because it had to be said, and it still stung, the arrogant bastard.

"I reconsidered….I thought perhaps all you were in need of was some practical therapy".

"Hmm"

"I provide transport…if that helps seal the deal"

John remembered the bunch of keys from the bowl.

"Motorbike?"

"Fuck no….car, 1979 Black Ford Capri"

"Classy…A bit phallic isn't it?"

"Are you taking the piss?"

"Maybe…perhaps…yes…yes I am, it's completely ridiculous"

"It's a classic" Sherlock glowered, but John could tell he was only pretending to be offended, "…or it will be…I restored it myself"

"You don't look the type"

"And what exactly is the type John?"

Electricity crackled in the air between them, palpable, meaning hidden inside meaning in one short sentence. John focused on the swell of Sherlock's bottom lip, the way it stuck out slightly in the hint of a pout, and thought about what it might be like to bite down on it and suck it into his mouth.

"Are you aware you spend at least sixty per cent longer staring at my mouth than at any other body part…that's quite the oral fixation John"

"Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Shut the fuck up"

And this time it was all him, bringing two hands up to cup Sherlock's face, tilting his head and bringing their lips together. It was his tongue that slid in first tasting stale, smoky breath and pizza and it was fine, all fine when Sherlock bit back and slowly ran his hands down the length of his body, cupping his arse through his jeans and yanking their hips together just a little too hard, and making sweet little moans into his open mouth, because this was good, and it was real and he could feel it, that missing piece he'd been chasing, the reason why everything felt wrong…until suddenly it didn't anymore.

Because that was all you could do in the end, test things out, see if they worked try on a new skin and see if it was a good fit or not.

And maybe this was it, maybe they were made for each other, Sherlock and John, but there was only one possible way to find out. They walked across a gravel drive towards a sleek black car, the lock popped open, John opened the passenger side door and climbed inside.

"Ready?"

And there it was again, the not- really- a- question – but an invitation, and John gave the only answer he ever wanted to now or ever could.

"God yes….".


End file.
